


The Britpick Fic

by Thea_Bromine



Series: Strategic Pluralism [2]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: BDSM, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-29
Updated: 2014-01-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 12:27:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1159745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thea_Bromine/pseuds/Thea_Bromine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Follows on from  <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1159396"><i>Strategic Pluralism</i></a> and won't make any sense unless you read that first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The English Vice

**Author's Note:**

> British spelling because this is about, and mostly from the point of view of, Giles.

The lights on in the flat told him that Xander was already home; he dropped his keys on the desk, his lecture notes on top of them and waited. Sure enough, Xander leaned over the rail and looked down at him.

“How did it go? And whoa, what are you wearing?”

“It went very well,” he said mildly. “There were more people there than I expected; the question session went on longer than planned too. I’ve made some useful contacts, I think.”

“Yeah. And to go with the important question, _what are you wearing?_ ”

“It’s a suit, Xander. I wear one when I’m lecturing.”

“It isn’t tweed.”

“No, it isn’t. Is that a problem? Am I not allowed to wear clothes that aren’t tweed?”

“You’re allowed to wear the very faded jeans, and the white tee shirts, and the leather jacket. You are _so_ allowed to wear the leather jacket.” Xander was coming down the stairs as he spoke. “And the band shirts. You should wear those more often.”

“I can’t usually find a clean one,” Giles pointed out, “on account of you wearing them. And anyway, I can’t deliver a ninety minute lecture on the Syriac translations of the Book of Jubilees in a leather jacket and an Undertones tee shirt. I’m not Indiana Jones.”

“You know Indiana Jones?”

“Of course I do, I got an unexpected but very welcome shag in the back row of the Roxy during _Raiders of the Lost Ark_. Trainee Watchers’ post-examination pub crawl; one drink in every bar we passed until closing time and then a curry and the late night showing. We sneered at the archaeology and catcalled at the occultism until we got chucked out. I don’t think I’ve ever seen the end and my recollection of the middle is obscured by Juliet Lazenby’s breasts but I know who he _is_. And I maintain, I can’t lecture to the Sunnydale and District Antiquarian Society dressed like that. Hence the suit. I could change now, if you’ve left any comfortable part of my wardrobe untouched.”

“Or you could stay wearing the suit. Which would be my preference, if I get a vote.”

Giles raised an eyebrow and leaned back against the desk. “You like the suit?”

Xander slid to his knees at Giles’ feet. “I like the suit, Professor Giles. I like the suit a _lot_.”

“Good grief. Xander Harris turned on by a Savile Row suit. You realise I possess more than one?”

“Why have I never seen them before?”

Giles shrugged. “I was hardly going to wear one at the school. I was in enough danger of people asking questions without adding in clothes which cost two months’ gross salary. They aren’t exactly suitable for patrol either.”

“Wait... two _months’_ salary?”

“A bespoke suit is expensive, Xander. So, while I don’t mind you wearing my jeans, and I can live with it if you wear my tweed, not that I think you would want to, I will mind a _lot_ if you wear my suits. They won’t fit you anyway, they’re made for me, and they’re the wrong style for somebody of your age. I don’t want Mr Buchanan striking me off his list because of some American whippersnapper ruining his reputation as a cutter.”

“Who’s Mr Buchanan?”

“My tailor. That’s Young Mr Buchanan, who’s a year or two older than me. His father made my father’s suits, and his grandfather, Mr Proctor, made my grandfather’s suits.”

Xander shook his head. “You inherited a _tailor_?”

“Oh good heavens no. A tailor inherited me. My cousin Russell was struck off by his tailor when he put on too much weight. The family felt the shame very deeply.”      

Xander squinted at him. “That sounds like a fib.”

“Actually, it’s true. Russell just found that he could never get an appointment.”

“Seriously, Giles, two months’ money?”

“Month and a half.”

Xander sat back on his heels, considering. “Giles... you got fired by the Council, and the school went bang, but you aren’t looking for another job. Why not?”

“Ah. Well, yes. I’ll have to find something, certainly, because we don’t want the immigration people asking awkward questions about me.”

But Xander was getting better at this; he could spot when Giles had answered slightly the wrong question – or when Xander had asked slightly the wrong question. He got to his feet again. “Money isn’t a problem, is it?”

Giles smiled. “No.”

“And that would be because...?”

“The Council has never paid well, and nor did the school. Neither of them was my main source of income.”

“What is?” Xander held his breath. Giles’ private life involved him now, but he was a little uncertain about which parts of it were still closed. Money seemed a likely one.

“Property, mostly. There’s a trust which specifically looks after any Giles who is a Watcher, and I’m older than James so the bit of the family estate which is entailed will come to me, and since I’m over twenty-one I get a share of the revenue now. I’m not likely to have children so it will go to Christopher after me. That’s all tied up; I can spend the income but I can’t touch the capital. And then there’s the unentailed property from my maternal grandfather; that was left to James and me rather than to my mother, because of inheritance tax considerations. It was explained to me three times but I never understood it, I don’t understand taxation. What I actually live on, is rental income.”

Xander translated this in his head. “You don’t need to work.”

“Other than to stop myself going barking mad?”

“I’m a kept man.”

Giles blinked. “No, you’re not. You’re looking for a job.”

Xander looked away. “I’m not finding one.”

“You will. If what you mean is, will we be destitute if one of us doesn’t get a job, then no. Will we get bored and frustrated and probably start to fight, then I would say yes. The slaying thing is more important than paid employment, but it’s also important to keep the slaying thing quiet so some obvious means of us earning a living and occupying our time...”

“Would be of the good, I see that.”

“I, I’m sorry, Xander, I’ve missed a trick here, haven’t I? Have, have you been worrying about this?”

Xander wrinkled his nose. “A bit. Just, what were we going to do if... But I always thought it would be ‘what were _we_ ’, not just me. I shoulda asked, I suppose.”

“I can see that it would be a hard thing to ask. And it _is_ ‘what are we’. I’m not going to let either of us starve, but I need a job to keep me sane, and so, I think, do you. Yes, I could afford to keep us both and in six months you would hate me for it.”

“Yeah, I... I think I would. Not, you understand, that _part_ - _time_ kept man is a problem.”

“Shall I keep you naked and collared and chained to my bed?”

Xander shivered. “Works for me.”

“It won’t work with the suit. Professor Giles wouldn’t keep you chained to the bed, although Ripper might.”

“Oh God, choices... I like the suit. I really like the suit. But you need a cane to go with it.”

Giles’ eyebrows rose slowly. “Really? Now that I didn’t expect.”

Xander looked blank. “Yeah, to pose with.”

Giles frowned slightly. “Pose?”

“Fred Astaire style? Silver topped. Rest your hands on the top and look down your nose?”

Giles laughed. “Oh, a walking stick! Not a cane.”

Xander's head tipped. “What’s the difference?”

“A walking stick is for support. Balance. Style as well, if you like.” He set his hands on Xander's shoulders and turned him towards the desk, pushing lightly on the back of his neck and leaning over him as Xander obligingly bent. “A cane,” he said in a soft and ominous tone, “is quite different. A cane,” and his other hand ran up the back of Xander's thigh, “would be how Professor Giles punishes a bad Xander. I have one, upstairs. Do I need to fetch it?”

Xander's breath caught. “No,” he whispered anxiously, and heard Giles give a huff of amusement.

“No, what?”

Xander froze, his mind blank; Giles waited for a moment and then felt the tremor in Xander's back. He frowned again.

“Xander? Was that a ‘no, Professor Giles’ or a ‘no, Principal Snyder’?” He lifted his hand from Xander's neck, and saw, with some disquiet, the quiver through the young man’s body. “No, all right. Get up, Xander, come here. Snyder, obviously. Xander, the whole bloody point of having a safe-word is to _use_ it when I ask you for something which freaks you out.” The words were tart, but the tone was tender and Xander was gathered close, hugged, and led to the safety of the couch. “Come here, you nitwit. Tell me what’s wrong.”

Xander shook his head desperately but Giles was having none of it, pulling him down and tugging until Xander gave way and cuddled close, his head against Giles’ chest.

“Talk to me?” It was a fairly gentle prompt, accompanied by a slow run of Giles’ fingers through the soft hair at the back of Xander's neck.

“Have you really?”

“Have I really what?”

“Got a cane.”

“Somewhere, yes. I think it’s in the box on top of the wardrobe, but it might be in the trunk under the bed. If it bothers you, it can just stay there, or it can come out and go in the bin.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not interested in using something which appears to be giving you the screaming ab-dabs.”

“No, I mean, why have you got one?”

Giles blinked bemusedly. “Same reason as I’ve got that bloody great vibrating dildo about which you were so enthusiastic the night before last. Or the beads which were your idea to buy as I recall, not that I’m arguing. Because I saw one, thought, ‘hey, that looks fun,’ bought it, tried it, liked it, kept it. Not actually that one, to be fair. That’s about my third or fourth. I know I broke one – well, Deidre broke it on Randall – and one disappeared when I moved house in London; I always thought those removal people were unreliable.”

“God.”

“And it gives you the yips. I see that. I’m sorry I mentioned it; I wouldn’t have done if I’d known.”

“It’s... it’s just...”

Giles waited, patiently, still carding his fingers through Xander's hair.

“It’s just sex?”

“I’ve never beaten anybody in earnest,” he confirmed, allowing himself a smile.

“What about you?”

“You have to remember that I’m of the generation for whom corporal punishment was a given.”

“Your father?”

“He slippered me occasionally for disobedience when I was small; I can’t remember him ever going further than that. We don’t get on, but he’s not cruel, he was just a rather remote parent. I was caned at boarding school. Not often: I was actually rather well behaved until I got to Oxford. Only twice.”

Xander swallowed. “What for?”

Giles leaned his head back against the couch. “When I was thirteen or so, Dr Rennie, my Head of House, gave me three for sheer bloody idleness. He must have had the patience of a saint, I’d done no serious work for half a term. It should have been twice as many, twice as hard and a fortnight earlier: I’d discovered that I could manage the year without putting in any effort, and I was sitting in the middle of the class lists when he thought – quite rightly – that I ought to be at the top. He warned me, I paid no attention, he whacked me. Then in my Lower Sixth year – last year but one, I was seventeen – a whole group of us got caught breaking bounds to smoke. That was Dr Rennie as well, he’d been made headmaster by then. We got a solid six apiece and gated for the rest of term.”

“Gated?”

Giles shrugged. “Grounded? Restricted to school premises. I’d got a girlfriend in the town, I’d have taken a dozen to avoid the gating, given the option.”

“God.”

Giles wrinkled his nose. “It wasn’t so awful. Unpleasant while it was happening, painful and humiliating but soon over.”

Xander looked horrified but he couldn’t leave it alone. “What... how...”

“Rennie bollocked us all together and then sent us out to wait in the hall. Then he called us in one at a time – horrible for Abernethy because he went first and he didn’t know how many to expect. We could hear it from outside so we knew it was the full six. I think I was about third in. He’d got a chair out in the middle of the room, I bent over the back of it and took a death grip on the seat. He didn’t say much, just that he was disappointed, he’d thought I had more sense. Four squarely across the middle of my backside, two low down; those are the ones that really sting, and ‘get out of my sight, Giles; if I see you here again this term I’ll make you very sorry indeed’ as if I weren’t quite sorry enough to go on with. I went off the same as Abernethy and Romaine, not catching anybody’s eye, stiff upper lip balanced by slightly trembling lower one, looking for somewhere private to get myself calmed down again, hopped up and down a bit, clutched my arse and cursed until I felt better, inspected the marks, and went to tea.”

“God, how can you be so _calm_ about it?”

Giles frowned. “Xander, it wasn’t a big deal. To be avoided if possible, certainly, but the real punishment was the gating. It was a perfectly well-deserved six of the best, not a flogging. Nobody died.”

Xander writhed, grimacing; there was obviously something here which Giles wasn’t understanding. “You, you need to talk to me, love. Why is this upsetting you so?” A horrible suspicion came to him. “Has somebody... did somebody beat you?” He’d always assumed, from Xander's reactions and his enthusiasm for ‘Professor Giles’, that nobody had ever raised a hand to him, however incompetent his parenting had been; perhaps that was wrong? 

“Oh! No, not ever. Well,” and with a teasing glance, “only you, Professor Giles.”

Giles wasn’t fooled: that was Xander trying to distract him. “So why are you freaking out at the idea of a caning, when you know quite well that if you seriously object to it, I won’t try to persuade you?”

Xander squirmed again. “It’s just... that’s way past anything we’ve done. That’s serious.”

Giles frowned again. “No more serious than my belt and you didn’t object to that... Xander, are you doing this just, just because you think _I_ want it? Because if you don’t like it, I don’t.”

“No! No, I do. But... a cane’s serious. I mean...” he dipped his head again and muttered something of which the only distinguishable word was ‘Singapore’.

“Bloody hell! What sort of education do you think I had? We’re not talking about a judicial cane, Xander, that’s, that’s brutal. That’s a bloody _club_. A school cane... Right. Come on. Upstairs. I’m going to show you. You can throw it away afterwards if you like, but you’re going to see what I’m talking about.”

Naturally, because he was in a hurry, the damn thing wasn’t where he thought it was and it took him five minutes to find it, with Xander sitting on the bed looking terrified.

“There. See? Light, not rigid. Springy. Stings like fuck but that’s all. Dr Rennie’s six hurt like hell while he did them, smarted for the rest of the evening, twinged when I sat down the next day, and that was all. The marks lasted a day or two more. If he’d made me drop my trousers – which he didn’t, and wouldn’t have – I might have had marks for a week. No longer. It’s a sharp punishment, rather than a serious one. He would have been allowed to give me twelve, but I don’t recall anybody ever getting more than eight.”

“It’s... it’s a switch, really.”

“Yes. It’s not heavy enough to do real damage. It’s not going to break the skin unless you absolutely go at it, and I wouldn’t do that anyway. Is that what you were expecting?”

“I – no. No. It’s... maybe it’s another of those British English not being the same as American English things? That we think of a cane as being, I dunno, harder? Heavier than that?”

“I think you might be right. If you think of a walking stick as a cane, then if I threaten you with a cane, you’re expecting something inflexible and heavy, perhaps? So a caning sounds more severe than it is? I’ll tell you something, Xander: there was a paddle on the wall of the staff room at the school. Snyder used to complain about once a month that he wasn’t allowed to use it any more. I used to look at it and think it was absolutely _barbaric_. I can’t imagine something like that _ever_ being used in an English school. I looked at it and thought ‘they hit children with a bloody _plank_?’” He took the cane back from Xander’s unenthusiastic grasp. “Shall I put it in the bin?”

Xander hesitated. “No, but...”

“But you don’t fancy it.”

“No. Sorry.”

“Never apologise for it. ‘I don’t want to’ is _always_ a perfectly acceptable answer. Specially given... well.”

Xander looked doubtful. “But... do _you_ want to?”

Giles shrugged. “I can’t say I’m bothered one way or the other. I don’t want to do anything that frightens you. I’m O.K. with you getting a thrill, but I don’t want you unhappy.” He closed the box and kicked it back under the bed. “Mind you, I think I do have something that you’ll like.”

Xander still looked subdued. “Yeah?”

“Dr Parker at the museum wants me to write a couple of monographs for them, about some of the artefacts, and offered me the use of an office and a computer.”

Xander began to smile. “And you said...?”

“I said that I wasn’t well up in computers but that I had an amanuensis who would transcribe my notes for me.”

“An...?”

“My assistant, Mr Harris, can make something of my handwriting, can spell most of the names in the anagignoskomena, and will put my working papers on the computer for me.”

Xander looked uneasy. “Yeah to one and three, but I didn’t even understand what that second one meant. Except that it was to do with spelling and my spelling is _so_ not of the good.”

“You can copy. Your typing is quicker than mine and you understand the computer. I can proof-read. I’ll allow you three spelling mistakes per page, Mr Harris. More than that, and... what do you think I’ll do?”

He held his breath, in case Xander had been rendered so un-nerved by the foregoing conversations that even the things they had done before might have become objectionable. Xander dipped his head nervously, and then looked slyly sideways at him – and his heart rejoiced.

“Will you punish me, Professor Giles?”

“Oh yes, I should think so.”


	2. The Museum Porn

Dr Parker knocked politely and waited; with another visiting academic he would have opened the door and rapped on the doorframe at the same time, making it plain that he was the Senior Curator at the museum, and that all visitors were there on his sufferance. Somehow he felt disinclined for that with the big Englishman, whose curriculum vitae listed academic establishments and museums of which Dr Parker himself could only dream, and the elegance of whose clothing made Dr Parker envious. He had seen, too, Mr Gunning from the Board of Trustees, who had no particular opinion of foreigners, attempt to patronise Professor Giles, and he had seen Mr Gunning retreat with, so to speak, his balls in his hands, the knowledge that he had been insulted, and no particular clue as to how it had been done.

A voice from within invited him to enter. Professor Giles had obviously immersed himself in his work immediately; he was seated behind the large desk, on which were several of the artefacts he was to describe, and a selection of large leather-bound tomes.

“Dr Parker – do come in. Have, have a seat.”

“Thank you; I just called to make sure that everything was satisfactory. You’re finding everything you need?”

Professor Giles smiled. “As you see.”

“Your young assistant isn’t with you? I saw him coming and going yesterday with various boxes.”

“He came in with me today; I’m sure you’ll encounter him at some point.”

“I think he isn’t a history student? He seemed a little... at a loss when I spoke to him about the carvings.”

“Mr Harris’s skills are more practical than academic. I find his, his common-sense approach a useful foil to my own theoretical mode of operation. No, he isn’t an historian but he’s competent at chasing down references, he’s unfailingly obliging and pleasant-natured, and he’s good with his hands. Not a student at all, actually.”

“I only ask because we could obtain an intern for you from UC Sunnydale if...”

Professor Giles frowned. “I hardly think that would be necessary. The, the information sources are – well, as you see,” with a gesture at the books. “These belong to me, and I would prefer that they not be handled by, by... Mr Harris is familiar with my care for my books, and, and knows what to expect should he fail to handle them with the respect they deserve.”

“Oh, as you like, as you like.” It seemed a little odd to Dr Parker but he was receiving the impression that he should be shutting up some time about now. Professor Giles was English; the English were well known for being eccentric, and if his eccentricity took no worse a form than academic selfishness and not wanting a student who might demand a share of the credit, or a citation on the paper, then Parker could live with it. “He’s done this sort of work for you before? Experience counts for a lot, of course.”

“Indeed. He’s only working for me while he, ah, searches out the local job market. It will presumably be valuable to him to have something on his, his résumé, as you call it, after his school career.”

“You met him at the school, then? I confess, when I suggested to the Trustees of the museum that we approach you about the Haynes Collection, one or two of them wanted to confirm that you actually were _the_ Professor Giles; we couldn’t quite see what would have brought you to a school in California.”

Professor Giles’ eyebrows rose slowly. “My health,” he said, in a tone which quite clearly added _not that it’s any of your business_. “Persistent pneumonia, and my consultant advised me to take a year at least in a drier climate than London. The work at the school was really only to stave off boredom; I’m occupied with writing at the moment and I can do it as well here as anywhere else. I can of course prove my bona fides to your Trustees if, if you think...”

 _But I shall be mortally offended and you can whistle for your monographs._  

“Oh, no, no, no need, it’s all... Yes, you mentioned the other night that you were writing. You know, with the peculiar occurrence at the school graduation... if you were using the school as a convenient base for your work... must have been very problematic for you. We would be pleased, you know, to have you here on a longer term basis? Nobody else using this office, no plans for it, you and Mr Harris would be welcome to make use of it for as long as you liked.”

Professor Giles smiled. “I think that would be most satisfactory, Dr Parker. I confess, working at home is not always... one does tend to be, to be interrupted. I do still mentor a small student group, and I fear they don’t always understand that there are times when I would prefer, when Mr Harris and I are occupied in something which does not concern them.”

“Well, then, we shall consider that settled. Your books will be quite safe here; the cabinets all lock, as you see, and although we don’t have security coverage of the individual offices, all the hallways are alarmed. Mrs Markby has issued you with a keycode, I presume?”

“She was most helpful.”

“I’ll make sure she’s authorised to issue a code for your Mr Harris... did you say he was here today?”

“He is somewhere in the building. He suffers, I’m afraid, from the common failing of many young men: he doesn’t seem to be able to manage more than an hour or so without finding something to put in his mouth. Twenty minutes here and he had located the vending machine and the kitchen. You needn’t worry, I won’t, I won’t let him spill soda on your exhibits.”

“Perish the thought.”

“He knows my opinion of such things and has learned to be careful.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Well, I’ll leave you to get on, Professor Giles. Anything you need, Mrs Markby can probably sort, but let me know of any problems. Do you want this door shut?”

“If you please, Dr Parker. Nice to talk to you.”

He wrote another five lines while Dr Parker’s footsteps passed out of earshot.

“I don’t recall saying that you could stop.”

“I can’t go an hour without having something in my mouth?”   

“I didn’t say it was a problem.”

“True.”

“I also said that you were good with your hands and that you were somewhere about the building, both of which are true.”

“Yeah. Under your desk with my mouth on your dick and your balls in my hands definitely counts as somewhere about the building. God, I thought he was never going to go.”

“So did I. Did you follow the instruction I gave you half an hour ago, about preparation?”

“Yes.”

“In that case, I am now going to lock that door, and by the time I turn round again, Mr Harris, _you_ are going to have lost your jeans and to be bending over this desk. And you will remember that the Junior Curator occupies the office on this side, and the Secretary to the Trustees occupies the one on the other side, so when I bury my cock in your arse, you will refrain from wailing like an ambulance siren.”

“Yes, Professor Giles.”

“Oh, and Mr Harris?”

“Yes, Professor Giles?”

“I expect you to keep an eye on both the Secretary and the Curator, and to advise me when they leave for the day, because once their offices are empty, I intend to spank you.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you. What for?”

“I’m sure that by five o’clock you’ll have done _something_ to deserve it. You can let me know.”

“Yes, Professor Giles.”


	3. It's the Shirts Again

“But... I don’t get it.”

“Buffy, there’s nothing to ‘get’. I am going to Los Angeles for a long weekend. Xander is coming with me to keep me company. That’s all.”

“You’re taking _Xander_ to a _conference_?”

“It’s, it’s not a conference, exactly. I have been informed that there are some people in Los Angeles with whom I may have some interests in common. I would like to meet them. I, I believe it to be possible that they may have some information new to me, on, on such subjects as bindings. They may be able to advise me on new methods and, and recent developments.”

“Yeah, I get that. I just don’t get why you’re taking Xander.”

Giles sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Does it matter?” He could almost have thought Buffy jealous, were it not that any time in the past that he had suggested that he might improve her knowledge of demonology, she had responded with all the enthusiasm of a puppy being taken to the vet.

“Xander? Spells and fighting? _So_ not his thing.”

“There’s no need to be rude,” he snapped. “I’m sure that if you think you can manage without Xander, he’ll be pleased to stop putting himself in danger for you, _and_ pleased to leave you to do all the research on your own.”

“Giles, Buffy didn’t mean that,” placated Willow. “Buff, remember, Xander's just had a binding on him; I know he and Giles are all snuggly and happy now, but it’s hardly surprising if he finds bindings and compulsions a bit... well, you would want to _know_ , wouldn’t you?”

“And less with the snuggly-happy pictures, Willow, please? Yeah, O.K., I do get that, sorta.” She was plainly not convinced; he offered her another reason, in the knowledge that she would like it even less.

“Buffy, I would like to be able to acknowledge Xander in public. Round here, that’s liable to involve questions not only about my relationship with him, but about my relationship with you, and about our interaction when you were still at school. As it is, we can go places together but we have to be discreet. I would like...”

She was making frantic ‘stop’ gestures. “No, really, Giles, not needing to know. _So_ not needing to know.”

“I was only saying that I would like to be able, perhaps, to hold his hand,” he said sedately. “Or even kiss him in public.”  

He winced theatrically at the expected ‘ewwwwww’, but she grinned at him. “Yeah. O.K. Giles/Xander handholding and public necking, _so_ much better somewhere I’m not. Go. Take your boy toy to LA. Get it out of your system. Come back and be tweedy and boring again.” She looked at Xander. “And never, _never_ tell me, O.K.?”

Xander grinned back. “You don’t want to know what we do with his tweed...”

“Not listening!” she yelped, hands over her ears. “Going home! Taking Willow!”

“But I think I do want to know,” objected Willow as Buffy dragged her towards the door. “I’ve never seen two men kissing, I want to know...” her voice faded as Giles closed the door behind them, shaking his head and laughing.

“Giles? Gotta say, masterly performance. Also, leaves me wondering, how many times were you telling us not to do things with the specific intention of getting us to do them?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said innocently. “And if we’re going to meet any of our travel plans, I think we should get a move on.”

“I mean, mister, that thanks to that shining example of misdirection, Buffy thinks we’re going to talk to people about demons.”

“I didn’t say that. I mentioned bindings. And people with shared interests. It’s not my fault if Buffy thinks that’s to do with demons.”

Rather than a convention called _Around the World in Eighty Kinks._

* * * * *

“If I let you wear the _Siouxsie_ one, may I be permitted to wear my own _No More Heroes_ shirt?”

“Um, is that what one wears to a...”

“You wear what you like. Sometimes there will be a dress code; if there is, it will be advertised on the flyer or the ticket.” Giles was bare-chested, wearing black denims and boots; Xander's brain melted a little. But only a little.

“No. Swap. Black jeans, _Siouxsie_ shirt, leather jacket. Blue jeans, coloured shirt. And God, that sounded gay.”

“Not particularly. Hand it over then.”

“Giles? How come your band shirts don’t match your record collection?”

Giles shrugged. “The supergroups had better albums. Punk had better singles and clothes. What can I say? I was vain. I liked the leather, and besides, it wound up my father. Anyway, half of them aren’t the originals, I’ve replaced them as they wore out. Are you ready to go?”

“Yeah?” It didn’t sound convinced. Giles tugged him over for a hug.

“Nervous? You needn’t be. Compared with most of the people there, we’re very small beer indeed. Nobody knows us, we don’t know anybody. So it doesn’t matter what anybody thinks about us, we’ll never see them again. And we’re only going to look; I won’t make you do anything... unless, of course, you want to.”

“Watcher porn.”

“Guilty as charged.”


	4. And She Says That’s Evil?

It had taken them three quarters of an hour just to look into every room and to agree on the ones that didn’t interest them at all. Fortunately at that stage they encountered a bar at which the crowd was less than three deep, and Giles worked his way in, emerging with a beer bottle and a soda for Xander. “Keep it in your hand; don’t put it down. I have absolutely no idea what sort of crowd is here.” He took a pull at his beer and made a face. “No danger of drinking too much on these. Even if I thought it safe to have more than one, I don’t think I’d want it.”

“Are you insulting American beer again?”

“You’ve got a couple of decent microbreweries but the generic stuff is vile. Now, what are we going to look at?” It was a rhetorical question: Xander had eyes like saucers and a tendency to wander into Giles’ shoulder through trying to look backwards over his own.

“Everything? And, uh, should I be trying not to stare?”

“As a general rule, at this sort of event, staring is not only permitted but expected. Just don’t touch without express permission. If it’s a couple you need express permission from both of them and in fact probably from me as well, and I’m not giving it, so don’t touch.”

“’Kay. What’s going on over there?”

A demonstration of swings and slings which made them both laugh.

“That looks fun but...”

“Yes. Explaining to Buffy why we’ve hung a harness from the doorframe?”

“Maybe not, then.”

“And actually, I might be more afraid of Willow’s curiosity.”

“Not going there. O.K. We can’t have one of those. Moving on.”

Moving on took them to tattoos and piercings; Xander, not altogether to Giles’ surprise, looked at the former without enthusiasm. Presently he leaned against Giles’ side and said quietly, “Painted shapes on the skin? No, thanks.”

“Too much baggage,” agreed Giles, equally quietly, an arm slipping around Xander's waist. He felt Xander stiffen, start to pull away, and then relax.

“Sorry. Felt odd. Not used to...”

“To being able to touch? I won’t if it makes you uncomfortable.”

“No, I... I like it. It’s just... odd. Like you say, nobody here cares, nobody knows us. I... Giles, is that man intending to put that stud where I think he is?”

“I believe it’s very stimulating.”

“You believe?”

“Well, you know I don’t have one. I have no direct information. Did you want to go and enquire?”

“ _So_ don’t. Don’t want anybody putting needles around my... no.”

“What about a pierced nipple?”

“You or me?”

Giles shrugged. “Either. Both.”

Xander considered. “Maybe. Yeah, maybe. What can you get to put in one?”

“Let’s go and look. I wouldn’t recommend having it done here, we don’t know anything about these people and it’s not something to do on an impulse, but we can have a look.”

It was lovely, he thought, being able to touch Xander without having to think about it, without having to check who was watching. He let his hand drift from waist to hip and Xander turned to smile at him.

“Hey... what’s that?”

“What have you seen?”

“That’s the British flag, isn’t it? Over there. What do you think they’re selling?”

A stall called _English Vice_ , selling canes. Xander's shoulders lifted uneasily and Giles patted him comfortingly. “All right, I know, not for you. You don’t need to look so terrified.”

“That didn’t sound like a local accent. That sounded like an Englishman. And an Englishman in a _Banshees_ shirt at that.”

Giles looked over; the man behind the counter smiled at him. He grinned back. “London. But I’ve lived here several years now.” He considered. “Bristol?”

“Near enough. You’ve got a good ear.”

“I’m a linguist, amongst other things. So are you settled here, or just over for business?”

“Both. My wife’s from Texas; we divide our time. Lot of mail order nowadays. Interest you in anything?” He winked at Xander. “Do I get the impression that your boy isn’t keen?”

Xander bristled a little, but Giles just smiled. “We’re new, still exploring boundaries. He doesn’t fancy a cane.”

“Looking for anything else?”

“What have you got?”

“Tawse? I’ve got an original Lochgelly, the real thing, if you’re a collector, but I’ll warn you, I’m not letting it go cheap... no? Ordinary straps, various lengths and weights. Leather paddles? Looks like a slipper, stings like a mother.”

Giles looked sideways at Xander, who grinned back, obviously trying not to think that he was having a conversation about... about that sort of thing, in a public place, but game nonetheless. “I think the professor would keep one of those in his desk.”

“It would be very noisy,” Giles warned. “And I suspect you might be noisier.”

“The professor would keep one in his desk at home rather than at the... at work?”

Giles took the paddle and flicked his wrist, trying it for flexibility and weight. Behind the counter, a blonde woman came up beside the man. “Ooooh, tell him no, babe, tell him no. That thing is _evil_.”

“Now then Kitty, what have I told you about discouraging the customers?” Her husband was laughing and she wrinkled her nose at Xander, laughing too.

“Darling, look at him. Look at those eyes. He’s way too pretty and innocent to need one of those.”

Xander blushed, and Giles snorted, adding dryly, “I assure you, the innocence is only skin deep. Want one of these, Xander?”

“Um, I dunno. I was liking the idea all the way to ‘evil’. Then I thought, she sells... those things, and she says _this_ is evil?”

“ _Evil_ , babe, I’m telling you. If he gives you a choice, six with the cane or two minutes with the slipper, pick the cane.”

“I doubt you’ll convince him,” said Giles, mildly. “Personally, I would agree with you, but...”

“Took me years to convince her that canings came in sixes,” put in the man. “Americans seem to want to deal in fives.”

Giles shook his head. “Shocking. No sense of tradition. We’ll take it, and if he doesn’t like it...” Ripper flashed a smile at Xander, “too bad.”

Kitty sighed theatrically. “Just don’t say I didn’t warn you, babe,” she commiserated, taking Giles’ credit card. “Do you need a bag?”

Giles shook his head, sliding the blade of the paddle into the pocket of his leather jacket. “Keep it close at hand for emergencies.”   

“Come back in half an hour or so, we’ll be doing a demo,” she invited, nodding at the rack of canes. “You never know, he might change his mind.”

They moved on, past a man inside a neat twist of coloured rope, past the two women painting each other with chocolate and strawberry sauce (“We can do that at home,” said Xander, with growing confidence), past the rubber and leather, stopping – at Xander's prompting – at the man in the inflatable latex suit and gasmask. They simply watched for several minutes, until Giles said softly into Xander's ear, “If you tell me that you want to, I’ll try, for your sake, but I have to say that I don’t get that one.”

“I’m getting what you said about us being junior league. That one... no. Just... No. We’re not really odd at all, are we?”

“Professor Giles and Mr Harris? Virtually mainstream.”

“Urk.”

“What have you seen?”

“We should have brought Buffy. And let’s pretend I didn’t say that, because we _so_ shouldn’t, but look at the _shoes_.”

“I hate to be the means of shattering your illusions, but they’ll be no good to Buffy. Most of those are designed for men.”

“O.K. I think that’s my ‘if you tell me you want to I’ll try but...’”

“You don’t want to see me in spike heels? I’m wounded.”

“Giles...”

“I’ll have you know I have very good legs.”

“Giles...”

“It took me a month to learn how women walk in those things.”

“Giles!”

“The corset helped because once your back is tilted, the rest just follows.”

“ _Giles!_ ”

“Yes?”

“You didn’t! You don’t! Um... do you?”

“Two words, Xander – _Rocky Horror_. I did. I _so_ , as you would say yourself, did. Stockings, heels, corset, eyeliner. Lipstick. There are photographs. My father absolutely had kittens. I think he was actually more concerned about that than about the demon-raising.”

“O.K., my mind has just gone to a very peculiar place, and I have a lot more sympathy for your father than I ever did before.”

“Well, it always amused me when you and Buffy and Willow accused me of wearing suspenders with my tweed. Those things over my shoulders? Braces. Suspenders are what held my stockings up.”

Xander whimpered and Giles had mercy on him. “Not at the same time, Xander. I never wore stockings under the tweed. But again, if you want to... No?”

They came to a corner and stopped. Giles looked diffident. “I’d, I’d like to go back and watch the demo.”

“The... oh.”

Giles shook his head. “I’d like it if you came too; I’m not going to try to persuade you into anything you don’t want to do, Xander, but would you just come and watch?”

Xander twisted. “I...”

Giles sighed. “No. You don’t want to. Are you happy enough wandering on if I go? I’ll find you again afterwards.”

Xander nodded, and Giles leaned in and kissed him swiftly. “No buying latex inflatables without me.”   

“I’m gonna go for another soda, I think. Do you want anything?”

“Get me the same. I won’t be long.”

The bar in the corner wasn’t busy; there was another jeweller next to it, and after Xander had worked out where some of the studs were meant to go, and mentally discarded them, he spotted the earrings. It was with half an idea of taking home gifts for Buffy and Willow that he spun the rack, before deciding that tiny handcuffs would perhaps raise more questions than he wanted to answer. The little green and gold eye almost evaded his notice – almost, but not quite.

“Eye of Horus,” said the woman with the cashbox. “Symbol of health and protection.” It was an ear stud; he loved it on sight. “I sell them singly or as pairs.” It was such a Watcher-y thing, Giles ought to have one... and he could have his ear pierced too, and wear the other... They could both do with all the protection they could get. And anyway, Giles ought to wear something in his ear more often than he did.

“I’ll take a pair.”  He pocketed the little box and looked round to make sure that Giles hadn’t seen him; he’d give Giles the stud back in their hotel later. He liked giving Giles things.

Giles had not seen him. Giles was at the English stand – Xander could pick him easily out of a crowd in which a third at least of the men were wearing black denim and leather – but Giles was not alone. There was a man, no older than Xander, smaller, blond, _cute_ , wearing leather of his own, talking to Giles, resting his hand on Giles chest, and Giles was politely removing it, wearing his _Professor Giles is unable to think down to your level_ expression and Xander was moving, pushing against the flow of people, wriggling between couples, excusing himself with a word, pushing the soda bottle towards Giles, stepping inside Giles’ arm as he lifted his hand to take it, and wrapping his own arm around _his_ Giles’ waist.

“Sorry I was so long, there was a horrible queue. Have I missed the demo?” He glared at blond boy ( _this is mine, buster, back off!)_ and rubbed his cheek affectionately on Giles’ shoulder. Giles’ mouth twitched in the manner which Xander had learned to recognise as amusement.

“No, not yet.” Blond boy made a face and moved away; Giles said quietly into Xander's ear, “Are you _jealous_ , Xander?”

“What? Sorry. I...”

“Possessive, then?”

“I... what did he want?”

“A daddy, I think. Not my thing. He’s attractive, but he’s not what I want.” He gathered Xander still closer and said in a Ripper growl, “But I’m glad to see that you know what’s yours.”

Xander flushed and dug Giles in the ribs. “It was only... I just...”

“I’m not complaining. At my age, it’s gratifying to be fought over.” He looked round. “Come on, then, let’s go.”

“But you wanted to see...”

“You didn’t. And since I obviously need you to keep me safe from predatory leather boys, we can...”

“Giles, I don’t mind waiting for you. You want to see it.”

Giles shrugged. “I can do without.”

“Oh, babe, you came back!” Kitty, bouncing through the crowd,  put her hand on Xander’s arm. “He said you didn’t even want to watch.”

“He doesn’t. I think we’ll pass, Kitty, we’ll...”

“No we won’t,” said Xander, surprising himself. “We’ll stay.”

“Xander, you don’t need to. You don’t like the idea and you don’t have to do anything you don’t like.”

“Babe, you’ve got a keeper here. This one’s a sweetheart.”

Xander glared at her. “You’re not having him either. I’ve just seen off some drama queen in a ripped shirt... I wouldn’t have brought him if I’d realised I’d have to watch him all the time.”

She laughed. “Now you’re getting it.”

“He’ll be getting it sooner than he thinks if he doesn’t mind his manners,” put in Giles ominously, running his palm over Xander's hip.

“Yeah, all with the promises.”

“You be careful, honey, or he’ll buy the cane.”

“He’s got one already.”

“And that,” said Giles firmly, “is how we know that it’s not for you and we needn’t stay.”

“We’re staying,” said Xander stubbornly. “I’m not joining in, but I’m watching. You want to see; you can’t be trusted not to be chatted up by Ripped Shirt Boy if I leave you; obvious solution, I don’t leave you. Then you owe me and we go and find... I dunno, something which I’ve never even thought about but which I can’t go another day without. And you get it for me.”

Kitty giggled. “You’ve been finessed, darling,” she advised Giles. “Just go with it.” And she trotted off towards her husband who was making ‘hurry up’ gestures.

“Xander...”

“No. I’m... Giles, can we not argue about this? It _so_ isn’t worth it.”

“I’m just curious about why you’ve changed your mind.”

Xander shook his head. “I dunno.”

“Are you afraid that I’ll go off with boys in ripped shirts?” That sounded disturbingly diffident.

“Nah, not really. I saw you brush him off. It was more... O.K., it was more that I suddenly did get that if I don’t want to do this, you won’t try to make me. And you needn’t put on that expression, because I do know that really, you’ve always been careful about that, even when we... _specially_ when the spell...” He stopped, regrouped and tried again. “Look, I’ll watch, O.K.? I can go that far. I’ll watch and if I wig, well, then we’ll both know.”

Giles leaned his forehead against Xander's. “And then we’ll go and look for something which you’ve never even thought about but can’t live without. I promise. Your very own set of surgical appliances. Enough jelly – I beg your pardon, jello – to fill a bathtub.”

“Now you’re talking. And after all, it’s the same as you coming to the Star Trek all-nighter. It’s my thing, not yours, and you came because...”

“Because it gave me something to complain about later?”

“Hey, it works for us, don’t knock it.”


	5. A Bathtub of Jello and a Ball Gag

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you decide to experiment, and don’t like the result, blame Adrian, not me. I believe his advice to be sound, mind you.

“O.K., ladies and gentlemen, my name is Adrian, this is my wife Kitty and we’re going to show you the use of a proper old-fashioned English cane. Not particularly the implement of choice in this part of the world, but globalisation and all that, and if you weren’t willing to try something new and different you wouldn’t be here.

“Little bit of history and background before we begin: the cane I’m talking about is rattan. That’s the same stuff as they use to make furniture. Let me point out: it’s not the same as bamboo, so if you buy canes in a garden supplier, you can’t sneak one up into the bedroom. Really, folks, don’t. It’s not the same stuff. Bamboo will shatter and splinter and you’ll be sleeping on the sofa at best and divorced with extreme prejudice and an assault case at worst.

“The cane came into popular use in Britain to replace the birch when people began to decide that punishment on the bare wasn’t quite respectable. You can’t use a birch over clothing; you can make a cane bite perfectly well even through denim if you know how. But let’s be honest: on the bare’s much more fun, and actually, for an inexperienced caner, in my opinion it’s safer because you can see what you’re doing.

“You’ve got a choice of cane weights. This is a junior or nursery cane. Very flexible. Stings but won’t do a lot of real damage. This one is thicker, a bit heavier. That’s a senior cane. You’ll know about it. We sell a lot of both of these. We’re selling them tonight, or if you don’t want to carry one about with you all night, we sell mail order. This is a reformatory cane; thicker again. I do _not_ recommend this for anybody who has never used a cane before. Start small. See if you like it. The cane’s the same as anything else: some people don’t like it, and you need to work out if that’s ‘I don’t like it, do it again’ or ‘I don’t like it, do it again and die’.

“For those of you who have tried this already and want variations, we’ve got kooboo, dragon and genuine Malacca on sale. I’ll mention the Singapore cane just the once: we don’t sell them, we won’t sell them, we don’t know where you can get one and we wouldn’t tell you if we did.

“Right. That’s what it is. What do you do with it? What _do_ we do with it, Kitty dear? Areas of application: keep it to the fleshy places.”

“Are you saying I’ve got a big ass, Adrian?”

“I may be the Top here but I’m not a complete idiot. You’ve got a wonderful arse, darling, and it will look even better striped. I’m sure these people will agree with me. Now look, if you’ve never done this before, go easy. You can always add some more if your partner hasn’t had enough; you can’t take anything away if you overdo it, and then you’re back to sleeping on the sofa. The tighter she’s bent, the harsher the strokes will feel. Middle of her backside and downwards, same for a cane as for a strap or anything else. The higher you go, the greater the risk of doing damage because of the underlying bone and the kidneys. The lower you go, the more it stings. A stroke in the undercurve of the rump will hurt like fuck. Traditionally, we aim to put the last one there, don’t we, Kitty?”

“Just remember, Adrian: tomorrow night, I’ve got the cane and you’re ass-up in the demo.”

“I shall look forward to it. You can cane the thighs; it’s amazingly effective. Do it very carefully because it can bruise severely, and don’t go down as far as the tendons behind the knees. If you want to try something quite different, a whack or so across the back of the calf will get a reaction. Moving left and right rather than up and down, same applies for cane as strap: aim for the centre of the far buttock. No further. A cane will wrap just as badly as a strap does, and the tip is moving at enough speed that if it wraps round the hip, the mark will last three months even if it doesn’t break the skin. Nasty. Sleeping on the couch territory again. A properly used cane won’t break the skin until you’re into seriously large numbers – wrap will break the skin on one.

“The other thing you need to watch for is crossing strokes. Very traditional, ‘barring the gate’, five horizontal strokes and one diagonal one to cross the others, but if you’ve overdone them, or even if your partner has delicate skin, the cross-points can break the skin. Very effective, provided you _don’t_ overdo it. Oh, and I don’t need to say, I’m sure, but I will anyway: because a cane _can_ break the skin, you never share one.

“Any questions before we go on?”

* * * * *

“Giles, if you don’t stop laughing, I’m gonna... I don’t quite know what, but it will be something horrible.”

It took a major effort but he managed to get his face straight.

“I am _never_ gonna be able to show my face in LA again.”

“I don’t, I don’t think you need worry, Xander. I think most of the people here are from out of town, like us.”

“That’s worse! I’ll never be able to show my face in... in _anywhere_ ever again! Are you laughing? You are! You’re laughing! You’re _so_ not getting laid tonight. You’re not getting laid again ever. Why didn’t you stop me?”

“How? I, I had no idea what you were going to say.”

“You shoulda known it would be something awful, it always is. That’s what I _do_. I say the wrong thing. Or do the wrong thing, or both. It’s your _job_ to stop me. Think of me as a walking apocalypse and do your duty!”

Giles shook his head, steered Xander into a corner and pulled him into a hug. “I, I don’t see what was so apocalyptic about it.”

“Oh no, I just made myself look a complete idiot.”

“You made yourself look like somebody who was concerned about other people. And who knew about ‘safe, sane, consensual’. Like you know what you’re doing. Xander, a few of the people who do the extreme stuff might look down on us for only paddling in the shallows, but you’ll find that most of them take the view that you go as far as you and your partner want and if in doubt, you err on the side of conservatism. Which is what you did.”

“She’s not my partner!”

“They were doing that as a show so that we could see how it worked; we were as involved as an audience always is. Adrian and Kitty were demonstrating the use of a cane and that includes how severe it is; he said we could ask questions and you did. You asked a perfectly reasonable – and responsible – question which would allow you to assess whether or not Kitty was distressed.”

Xander moaned and buried his face against Giles’ neck; that at least allowed Giles to smile again without fear of offence. Adrian’s expression had been priceless: plainly when he said “any questions?” he hadn’t expected a man half his age to say accusingly “Yeah. What’s Kitty’s safe-word?”

“Xander, he was startled. He wasn’t offended. Kitty wasn’t offended.” She had actually laughed so hard that she hadn’t been able to hold position, but he needn’t mention that.

“She said I was cute!” Xander wailed.

“She also said that it was a big improvement on Rhode Island where the only response had been ‘stop talking and give it to her’. I’d take ‘cute’ as a perfectly acceptable result if I were you.”

“I yelped! He whacked _her_ and I yelped!”

“So did the woman on my other side.”

“Yeah but Kitty didn’t say _she_ was cute.”

“Score one for you.”

“And minus several bazillion for you.”

Giles was startled. “Why me?”

“Because you’re here with an idiot.” It was low and rather unhappy. “I don’t know anything and I get it all wrong.”

“Do you want to try out the paddle right here and now?” That was his most Ripperish tone and sounded deadly serious, serious enough to get Xander's head up out of Giles’ neck.

“Wha... what?”

“Because if you call yourself an idiot again, I’m going to warm your arse on the spot and be damned to who’s watching. I’ve told you before, inexperience isn’t stupidity.” He allowed his tone to go more Professor Giles and less Ripper; Professor Giles was more likely to be believed. “You’re a novice. Everybody here was a novice once, including me. I’m not ashamed of being seen with you. Why would I be? I’ve got a handsome man less than half my age hanging on my arm, and he’s the sort of decent man who wants to know that other people aren’t being harmed. I’m still not totally clear on why you’re with me – what do you see in a middle-aged ex-librarian with glasses and responsibilities?”

“Not a librarian, you’re a professor. And you’re hot enough to be able to pull Ripped Shirt Boy. I’m the one with nothing to offer.”

“Oh, nothing much. I, I’ll tell you what, Xander: you go and stand on any one of these stages and announce that you’re bisexual, you’re open-minded, you’re clean, unattached and of legal age, and I’ll be trampled in the rush.” He considered. “And then I’ll probably stake somebody who wants to take you home and we’ll both get thrown out, and I’ll be arrested and Buffy will have to come and bail me, so can we perhaps not? Because I don’t want to explain this to her. I can hear how the explanation starts and I don’t like where it goes. Can we go and look for industrial quantities of jello now?”

Xander pushed his face into Giles’ neck again for a moment. “Yeah. But I still think you shouldn’t let me talk. It always involves a world of awful.”

“A bathtub of jello and a ball gag. There’s bound to be somewhere here we can get a ball gag. But that counts as part of your ‘something you never knew you wanted’ because it’s not something I want you to have.”

Xander tipped his head enquiringly. “No?”

“No. Because,” and this was purest Ripper, “I _like_ the noises you make when I fuck you.”  


	6. The Chain Reaction

They drifted, for half an hour or so. Xander was still rather quiet, and seemed to want to be close, so Giles hung an arm across his shoulder, and deliberately led him in their search for something Xander didn’t know he wanted but couldn’t live without, to stands which he thought would amuse, rather than arouse, him. So far Xander had refused corsetry, masks, wigs, dressing up outfits (he admitted the principle, but didn’t care for any of the ones on offer), and baby play, which he seemed to find disconcerting.

The bookstall, of course, drew Giles like a lodestone; he stopped to glance through the shelf devoted to sex magic, making sure there was nothing he hadn’t seen (and sneered at) before. When he looked up again, Xander, rather to his surprise, was deep in a large volume.

“Something interesting?”

Xander fidgeted a little. “You already know this stuff, and I....”

Giles let his hand drift conspicuously to the handle of the paddle.

“I’m researching.”

“Better. I’ve had longer to find things out than you, that’s all. What have you...”

“Just... why do people... I mean, that man with the inflatable suit. And the one who... and us, and...”

“More nouns, and possibly verbs, might help here?”

He was sorry as soon as Xander winced; he took the book from him, read the author’s name, and snorted, replacing the volume on the rack. “He’s not where I would start in the search for enlightenment; he’s a lightweight, a television presenter, not an expert, and without even the virtue of being easily readable. What do you want to know?” He slid an arm around Xander's shoulder and drew him onward; the book-seller had overheard his remark about ‘lightweight’ and was giving them both the evil eye.

“Just... you know how I am about Professor Giles. Authority, O.K., we know that. And yeah, even I can see that... we talked about my rôle models before. But that guy, the one who was dressed up as a baby? Or the one in the school skirt? And she was slapping his face and calling him names? Don’t get that. Don’t get... the way she was ordering him about? I can see, sorta, that it’s the same, only more extreme, and that book – if I was getting what he was saying, which O.K., isn’t definite because I agree with you, not the most readable – that book said it was common among people, specially men, with high-powered jobs. Which I don’t have. It mentioned a British politician?”

“Only one?” murmured Giles, casting back to the scandals of his youth.

“But I don’t get that? Why would a... a senator? Would he be like a senator? Somebody important, whatever, why would _he_ get a kick out of being bossed around? Or out of serious, _serious_ pain? And... why would you want to _do_ that to somebody else, either?”

Giles hesitated. “Why does anybody do anything when it comes to sex? Because it feels good. And it doesn’t feel good exactly the same way for any two people. I can’t say exactly, Xander but... Do you remember when... after... when Buffy was gone?”

He felt the tension in Xander's shoulder and his own fingers ached.

“Yeah.”

“You had your arm in plaster. I had, had pins in my hand. Willow was in, in a wheelchair. Oz was the only one of us still standing.”

“Sucked.”

“It did. I don’t, I don’t know about you, but every morning, I wondered if I could actually get out of bed.”

“Yeah. You mean ‘oh God, and today we get to do it all again’.”

“Xander, did, did you ever think ‘why do _I_ have to do this?’”

“’Bout eleventy-three times a day.”

“And if you had asked me, the only answer I could have given you was the same one I was giving myself: if not you, then who? At least once, the only reason I _did_ get out of bed was because I could hear you moving about downstairs, and I, I couldn’t think of anything to say if you had come and asked me why I wasn’t getting up and looking for Buffy.”

Xander's arm insinuated itself around his waist. “Generally what got me moving was hearing _you_ moving and thinking ‘the G-Man’s on the case, Xan, you can’t leave him to do _everything_ all by himself’.”

“Have you ever done anything else as stressful as that?”

Xander considered. “Graduation, maybe? Otherwise, not until the spell.”

Giles nodded. “All right. Now, think about being a, a captain of industry. A senator with responsibility for millions of dollars. Something like that. Somebody who maybe feels like that _all the time_. Maybe they live off the adrenaline most of the time.”

“Like the buzz when we fight and win?”

“Yes. And then you know how it can go flat after the fight? Then you add in the stress. And there’s always somebody coming after you, always somebody wanting something, wanting you to make a decision, wanting a piece of you. Do more, do more, do more. I can see how you might get to wanting a, an hour when you didn’t have to be the one making the decisions, being right, being responsible. An hour when somebody else tells you what to do and you just do it. No choices. No decisions. And then maybe, if that bled into your sex life...”

“You might end up on your knees in a frilly skirt just doing as you were told because it didn’t matter, all you had to do was do as you were told.”

“Precisely. And the severe pain, maybe that might be to anchor you in the moment with only one thing to think about? Not your schedule, your diary, the forty people who want something, the lists of things you have to do, but just... just the woman with the whip, and what she’s doing _right now_? Maybe if you’re so important that you’re not answerable to anybody, and you feel you’ve fucked something up and nobody will make you pay for it except your partner? Or it might take you the other way, if you’ve held back all day, _not_ made the sharp remark to the idiot in the office, not yelled at the guy who lost you the contract, not punched the one who screwed it up leaving you to carry the can, don’t you think you might be persuaded to use a strap on somebody who would just take it?”

“ _Is_ that how it works?”

“I have no idea. It, it might be. And if it feels good for him... and for her... and it does no harm to anyone else... I’ll certainly admit that a day of dealing with Wesley left me with an almost overpowering desire to take a stick to him, and if not to him, to _somebody_.”

“Well, yeah, that’s not kink, I think he had that effect on most people.”

They walked on a little in silence, until Xander said, “So... if it’s something I like, and you like the other side of it... we’re just lucky?”

“I would say so. But if there’s something you would like and it’s not my thing, we can negotiate. I don’t want pizza every time we have takeaway, but I don’t mind it once in a while. I’ll trade Friday pizza this week for Chinese next week. I’ll trade Star Trek for...”

“Making me listen to cricket commentary on the radio and let me just say I thought you were joking about that.”

“I’ll get cake for next time. But it’s the same with sex, Xander. If you come across something and want to try it, we can try. If you like it and I don’t care, or the other way round, we negotiate. If it’s something you genuinely dislike, then we don’t do it.”

Xander grinned. “Haven’t found one of those yet.” He tipped his head. “If it’s something _you_ really don’t like?”

“I’ll tell you.”

“Yeah.”

They walked on; he could feel Xander's spirits rise just in the way he moved. He wasn’t altogether surprised when Xander's head came up at the sight of the young woman with the handful of printed flyers. He was a little surprised – in a pleasant way – at the sheer yearning in Xander's voice.

“What is she _wearing_?”

Not a great deal, not on top, at least, but he had seen Buffy work out in a similar outfit. The clothing, though, had obviously been chosen with the intention of not distracting from the collar, the cuffs, and the chains which linked them.

“Wow.”

Giles held out his hand for a flyer and the woman said cheerfully “Stand 784, two rows over that way.” Xander's eyes were wide.

“Want to go and look?”

“I – yeah. Yeah, let’s. That’s... that’s...”

“That’s the sort of thing you need if I’m going to keep you naked and chained to my bed.”

He felt the shudder go right through Xander. “Oh God. Can you _please_ not say things like that in public?”

He laughed. “I think I’ll say what I like.” That came softly, directly into Xander’s ear. “I have no objection to people knowing that you belong to me. In fact, I think we need to make it more obvious.”

“Be obvious enough that I can’t walk straight...” It wasn’t a very serious complaint.

“Good.”

The stand was one of the larger ones, with four people behind it and a dozen mannequins, draped in various combinations of leather and metal. At one end, there was a rack carrying at least a dozen different coils of silver coloured chain, in a range of weights.

“Hi, guys. Help you, or are you just looking?”

Xander was staring, his mouth a little open; Giles grinned. “What’s the chain made of?”

“Latest alloy. Very light, incredibly strong.” He handed a piece across the counter. “Lock it up, you won’t get out of it, but it will shear with ordinary bolt cutters from a DIY store in an emergency. All the examples on the dummies we have in stock in standard sizes; if you want something different, or made-to-measure, we’ll take details tonight and if it’s straightforward, we can do it for you on the spot, or mail-order within a week if it’s something fancy.”

“Xander?” He had to touch him to get his attention. “Does this count as ‘can’t live without it’?”

Pointless question: Xander was all but drooling on his shoes. The man smiled. “Come round,” he invited. “Have a look at all of them up close and tell me what you like.”

Giles could already see what _he_ liked; Xander seemed to have some ideas too. “The girl out there,” he waved vaguely at the body of the hall, “she had a collar? And cuffs?”

“”You would need them both to be thicker,” said Giles, calmly. “Broader, I mean.”

“Black or red?” asked the man, reaching under the counter.

The red was scarlet; Giles wrinkled his nose. “Black.” He approved the collar held out for his inspection, holding it up against Xander's throat.

“Can do that on any of the sets you see, or on your own design. Take five minutes to change it over on any of the...”

“No. Not any of the off-the-pegs. I don’t see quite what we want. How do you price?”

The man reached for a pad of paper. “Tell me what you want, and I’ll cost it for you.”

Xander had had time to think – and to read the price tags on the models. “Um, Giles? I know I said you had to get me something, but I didn’t mean... Look, even I can work out that this sort of thing... I wasn’t serious.”

“Hush,” said Giles, authoritatively. “We’ll get a price. If it’s not manageable, I’m sure the gentleman will be able to suggest some ways for us to cut corners.”

“Hey, no charge for a quotation. And like I said, if we can modify a standard piece, prices come down a good bit. O.K., whatcha looking for?”

“Collar. Like that one, with the attachment points underneath. Cuffs, the broad ones like those. He’s got big hands.”

“Not a problem, we have those in three lengths.”

“Chain from collar to cuff. What gauge have you... that one, I think. I want a second set of cuffs just above the elbow, and there needs to be some slack in the chain both above and below the elbow. A ring at the back of all four cuffs.” He smirked at Xander. “There’s no saying how I might want to arrange him. A separate chain around his waist, no more than a handspan of slack in that. What fastenings do you use?”

“Whatever you want. Rings at every end is most popular, then you can use carabiners if it’s just for show, padlocks if it’s not. We’ve got both here, can match the weight and colour.”

“Padlocks. Show me the size? Yes. And yes, a ring at each end, and another one... the padlock will lie on his hip, so I want a ring centre front and centre back and on the opposing hip. Run a line of chain from the collar to the front and back, but they can have carabiners at the top and bottom. Oh, and a ring in the middle of each one.” He considered. “We’ll want a leash for when we’re out in public.”

“Oh God, Giles...”

“Leather or chain or half-and-half? Got a selection here.”

Giles tried the length of one, draping it down Xander’s body. “That one. And... how fine does your chain come? What’s the lightest?”

“This. Two millimetre. That’s really jeweller’s weight, but it’s strong. Can snap it, but not easily. Or this, this is four.”

“The two. I want enough that it will run across his chest once he has his nipples pierced.”

“Giles!”

“Not tightly; it needs to have some give.”

“Small loop either end to attach to a captive bead ring? Or until you get him pierced, it could go on clamps. And then when you want it tighter, it will go through the links on the central chain, higher or lower.”

“That’s what I had in mind, yes.”

“Giles...”

He leaned in to kiss Xander. “You’re not committed yet. Don’t worry, you’ll be allowed an opinion. This is my design. You get to modify it at the end.”

“Any more?”

He considered. “Yes,” he said slowly. “The four mil. Enough to go round his neck, fairly short. It’s not always going to be convenient to have him wear the collar, but... I think I want him collared nonetheless.”

“Want that sealed on? So it doesn’t have a clasp? Doesn’t come off at all?”

“Yes,” said Xander, breathlessly. Giles considered again.

“No,” he said regretfully.

“But Giles!”

“When you’re... working with Buffy, do you want something round your neck that can be grabbed and might not break?”

“Oh. No.”

“Standard clasp. Before you go out with Buffy, you come to me and I’ll take it off; I’ll put it back on you afterwards.”

“You want a name-tag on that? Don’t do them here, but I’ll give you a card for a guy on one of the other stands, he’ll give you ten per cent off.”

“Yes,” said Xander firmly.

“Anything else?”

“No, cost that, and let’s see. Unless... Xander?”

Xander shook his head, and leaned into Giles’ side. The man picked up a tape measure. “Just need a couple measurements, folks, and I’ll work that out for you.”

It took him only a couple of minutes; he sketched the arrangement, scribbled some numbers, and hit his calculator.

“O.K. There’s the final figure.”

Xander blanched.

“Convert that to sterling for me? It’s about one-sixty to the pound. Xander? Last chance for modifications.”

“Giles, that’s... that’s way too much. Way, _way_ too much.”

“It’s a lot less than a Savile Row suit. I haven’t had one this year. Haven’t had one, actually, since I came to California. I’m due one, and you can have it.” He grinned wickedly. “Believe me, I’ll make you earn every inch of it. Every single link.”

“But...”

“No. The money is my concern. I can afford it. All you have to do is say if you want it: yes or no.”

“But Giles...”

“Not an essay question, Xander. Multiple choice: yes or no.”

“Oh God, I should say no. I should. But I’m not gonna. Yes. Yes, please.”      

Giles nodded at the man. “Yes. We’ll take it. Credit card?”

“O.K., let me do you an invoice. There’s nothing in there other than cutting and adding rings, take me an hour to do it and you can come and pick it up, I’m Jamie, or do you want to leave me an address and we’ll mail it? No extra charge.”

“We’ll come back for it. You said there was somewhere would make tags?”

The engraver was doing brisk business; they waited ten minutes for him to be free, by which time Giles had decided precisely what he wanted.

“The large disk, please. That one to say ‘Ripper’, that’s all. And then an oval one to say this,” and he pushed a piece of paper across the counter, “as small as you can do it and still have it legible. Script, not block.” He looked at Xander. “That first one is for the leather collar. The other one is for the chain.”

“What did it say? I couldn’t make it out.”

_Property of Professor R Giles, M.A. (Oxon), D.Phil., F.B.A._

They wandered for the rest of the hour, although Xander looked at his watch frequently; when they went back, they were greeted with a smile.

“All done and ready for you; want to try it on just to check the lengths?”

“Yes,” said Giles firmly. “Shirt off, Xander.”

“What?”

“The young lady who was modelling might have worn hers over her clothes, but you needn’t think you’re going to. Shirt off.”

Jamie made a sound of amusement; Xander rather slowly pulled his shirt over his head. Giles took it and pushed it through his own belt as Jamie came round with his arms full of chain.

“Let’s start with the cuffs, O.K.?”

He was careful, checking fit and comfort, producing a punch to add two holes to each cuff (“they’ll stretch a little in use, but that should be enough”), turning the chains to make them lie flat, making sure that both keys actually opened the padlock, and clipping the last two chains to the collar.

“This a first collar?”

Giles nodded.

“You’ll want to do it yourself then.”

He did. God, did he ever. “Xander?” He glanced downward, and Xander, wide-eyed but instantly comprehending, dropped to his knees. Two of the other people behind the counter came a little closer and a couple of passers-by stopped to watch.

“Are you willing to wear my collar, Xander?”

Xander swallowed, and nodded, and then said clearly, “Yes, Giles. Please.”

He fumbled the fastening at first because his fingers were trembling; when he checked the fit, he had a sudden and unexpected flash of his father, teaching him to test the girth on a pony with three fingers inside the leather “or it’s too tight, Rupert, it’ll hurt him. It’s _always_ your responsibility to make sure he comes to no harm.” He blinked it away, and attached the ‘Ripper’ tag to the collar. “Comfortable?”

Xander nodded, his grin threatening to break out into actual laughter. Giles attached the leash. “Stand up.”

A couple of the observers clapped, and Xander blushed. He looked...

“Oh wow.” A woman behind the counter was holding out a mirror, and Xander inspected himself; Jamie looked at Giles. “Is everything satisfactory? Anything you want shortened?”

“It’s perfect,” he said honestly. Jamie grinned and held out a bag. “That’s his necklet and the chest piece, and when I cut the main chain, there was only about two feet left on the reel, so I put a ring on each end and it’s in there. I’m sure you can think of a use for it. Our mail order catalogue is in there too, for when you want something more.”

God, already he wanted something more.

“Want me to pack it up, or is he wearing it?”

“He’s wearing it.” That was a growl, and got a laugh from the woman with the mirror.

“Just work the room for half an hour, it’ll be good for business.”

Xander put his hand out for his shirt and Giles shook his head. “Oh no. I might let you have your shirt in the street – but in here I think you can just stay like that.”

For a moment, he thought that Xander, looking at the people around him, and the size of the crowd, would balk. Then Xander looked at _him_ , at Giles – and smiled. “’Kay.” Dear heaven, what had he done to deserve this? Xander, half naked in public, collared, leashed, willing, _his._

“Can we go that way next?”

They could go whichever way Xander wanted, whenever Xander wanted. That way would take them...

Past a blond boy in leather trousers and a ripped shirt, and Xander was swaggering, just a little _._

He pulled the leash, barely hard enough to bring Xander close. “Smugness is not an attractive characteristic, you know.” He saw Xander make eye contact and smirk, before returning his attention to Giles.

“So spank me.”

The Ripper growl again. “I intend to.”


	7. If Not Me, Then Who?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Points for anybody who identifies Giles’ friend’s ancestor, without looking it up.

 

He heard Xander come in, but he couldn’t be bothered to get up, or even to announce his presence. He just lay, looking at the ceiling and allowing his thoughts to chase themselves pointlessly around his mind. The fridge door banged, he heard that, and Xander's feet on the stairs, and...

“Oh!”

And the clunk of the glass on the bedside table, and then the tip and shift of the mattress as Xander climbed on the bed beside him, and wriggled in for a kiss.

“At least somebody’s pleased to see me.” And that sounded, as Xander would have said, _way_ too bitter.

It was odd; he could _hear_ Xander think these days. Xander wasn’t what he had been – which of them was? – and the tendency to speak first and think afterwards was diminishing. But he heard Xander consider at least three answers and discard them all, before settling down with his head on Giles’ shoulder and his arm across Giles’ chest, and deciding on “I didn’t think you’d be back yet.”

And now the one who was speaking first and thinking afterwards was Giles. “If I went back to England, would you come?”

“For a holiday?” The tone told him that Xander didn’t think that was what he meant.

“For good.”

“What did she say?” And that, of course, was the root of it. Not whether he would leave, or if Xander would go with him.

“She, she’d been delayed. Nearly an hour.” He still couldn’t bring himself to be as judgmental as he knew he would have been if he’d been speaking of someone else. Not even to Xander could he use the critical ‘late’. “Then she, she could only spare me fifteen minutes. She wasn’t interested in anything that I, that I...” That was tending towards censure. He recast it. “She felt that she already had all the information she needed, from, from other sources.” He hoped Xander didn’t hear the edge of hurt. There was a long silence. “I don’t know what I’m doing here any more.”

Xander couldn’t have missed the pain there. Nobody could have missed it.

“You’re the Watcher. The Slayer’s here, so the Watcher is here too.” Xander said it quite simply, but as if he knew it to be only the first proposition, not the endpoint.

“I don’t, I don’t think I am any longer.” It was bitter in his mouth.

Xander pushed his cheek into Giles’ shoulder. “Didn’t think you got a choice. You told me Watcher was what you _were_ , not what you did. That you were Called and they couldn’t actually fire you.”

“That was... it’s more complicated than that. I _was_ Called. Merrick died and I knew he was dead and I knew I was next. I told the Council that Merrick was dead before the news came in. But it doesn’t always happen that way. Sometimes, usually in the old Watching families, the binding is very strong and the Watcher knows immediately. I did, and my grandmother did when she was Watcher. Usually it’s, it’s not as strong as that, nobody’s Called, there’s no one specific candidate.” He swallowed. “I think it’s my fault that Merrick is dead. Well, not my fault, I didn’t do it, but... on account of me.”

“How come?”

“I think if I’d been ready when Buffy was Called first, I would have been Called then too, only I’d been arsing about with demon raising and whatever so... I wasn’t fit to be her Watcher when... so it was Merrick.”

“Was he Called?”

“I, I don’t know. If it doesn’t happen, if there’s no specific Calling, the Council chooses a Watcher. There’s a spell, it tests for, for suitability, and they’ll find half a dozen candidates with similar scores and pick one.” His mouth twisted. “Quentin Travers refused to believe that I’d been Called. He made me take the test four times, with different groups of Watchers. None of them scored remotely as highly as I did. It couldn’t be denied that I was the Watcher. And then they sent Wesley and they fired me and it didn’t bloody matter, it didn’t matter because I was the Watcher and we all knew it.”

“What’s changed?”

He didn’t have an answer for a minute. And then, “Everything. Faith. Wesley. Buffy herself. I told her she had to, she had to start managing without me, and when she did, I didn’t like it. And now...” He shut his eyes. “I tried the spell this afternoon. If they’d been looking for a Watcher for her, it wouldn’t have scored me highly enough to get my name mentioned.”

_“What?”_

“I might as well go home. Buffy doesn’t need me, the Council doesn’t want me.” Go home with his tail between his legs _again_ and tell his father _again_ that he was a failure.

Xander was silent for a minute. “Giles... do they normally test Watchers again after the time they choose one for a Slayer?”

“Not as far as I know. I don’t think the question has ever arisen. Slayers don’t normally...” he swallowed hard.

“Don’t normally live long enough for it to be an issue?” Xander's voice was fierce.

“No.”

“So... for all you know, it’s normal that the link, the binding, whatever, changes. Come on, Big Guy, we know Buffy. Today she’s ditching you for whatever else she thinks ties in with the slayage. Tomorrow, they screw up and she’ll want her Watcher again. How many times has that happened already? She ran... she went away. How crap was the link then? Did you try?”

“No.”

“So you don’t know if this is permanent or not. And you don’t know if it’s you or her. So you test yourself and you score low. There’s nobody else here to be tested – you might still score higher than anybody else. It might be that Buffy’s current Best Buddy isn’t a Watcher at all – and that’s not your doing, it’s hers. But give it a couple of weeks and she’ll remember that it’s you. Test again then.”

“Xander, how long has it been since Buffy came here? Since she wanted _anything_ I could give her? She doesn’t want any of the things I can do. She, she won’t train with me, she won’t research with me, she won’t, won’t patrol with me. She’s got,” and he was _not_ going to let his voice crack, “she’s got other forms of support now.”

“Does she say that? That she doesn’t want you any more?”

He was silent.

“Giles, _did she say that?_ ”

“I asked her to let me go and she said no, she couldn’t do without me. But she said it like... like someone humouring a demanding child.”

“If you go... what will the Council do? Do they know... they must know you’re still here.”

“I expect so. Well, I know they do. I have a friend, he’s a cousin of sorts... the Silences have been Watchers as many generations as the Gileses. The men in the family carry the, the characteristic, it goes with the name, but it only shows in the women. Giles Watchers are always men, Silence Watchers are always women. My grandmother was a Silence before she married. John says they know I’m still here. But they’ll know – they _must_ know – that the binding’s all but broken.”

“And Wesley?”

“I believe they know he’s gone.”

“So what do they think Buffy’s doing about a Watcher? They must know that it’s still you, even if you’re not on their books.”

He swallowed. “I don’t think they care. They’re, Buffy, and Faith as well, they’re...” It trailed away.

“They’re waiting for Buffy to be killed.” Xander sounded as sick as Giles felt. “And for Faith to die. And then another Slayer will be Called and... better luck next time.”

He couldn’t answer, but his head moved in assent.

“Does Buffy know that?”

“I, I don’t know.” He closed his eyes again; he felt sick. He knew the next question. He had asked it himself; Xander was quite capable of the leap.

“Would they... actually _do_ anything... rather than just doing nothing and waiting for it to happen?”

It was a full minute before he answered.

“I don’t know.”

And as long again before he said, so softly that Xander must have picked it up from the vibration in his chest, as much as from any sound in the air, “I can’t go, can I? I can’t take the risk. Where there’s a Slayer, there _has_ to be a Watcher, however, however unsatisfactory, and it’s me. If not me, then who?”


	8. The Little Xander That Could

If Xander hadn’t been there... he rather thought he might have lost the weekend. If there hadn’t been somebody else watching when he poured a drink, one might have become several. If Xander hadn’t been hungry, Giles would probably not have bothered to eat. If Xander hadn’t coaxed him upstairs, and then persuaded him that what he needed was a back-rub, he would probably have spent the night on the couch rather than in his own bed. Somehow, though, that evening at least, it was less trouble to give way than to argue. Somehow, when Xander said casually, “You know, G-Man, I’m not exactly in a position to criticise, but even I know that Buffy has the attention span of a gnat; she’ll be back here as soon as she realises that the research still has to be done and if we don’t do it, she has to,” it was easy to grimace and concur. Somehow, when Xander said, “Isn’t it lucky that we don’t both get these ‘oh God, what am I doing here’ moments at the same time?” it seemed obvious to agree that everything passed in the end.

He still felt the heaviness of failure, though, and over the course of the next day it began to mutate from what he knew had been a most childish and unseemly sulk, into rage. Rage at Buffy who valued him so low. Rage at the Council who judged him in the absence of evidence and found him wanting.

Rage at himself for having made such poor choices, and so many of them.

“Giles? If there’s only you and me here tonight, it seems a shame to waste the opportunity...”

God, what it was to be young, but Xander had been trying so hard to look after him. It was only fair... Xander didn’t deserve to be the target either of his sulk _or_ his anger.

“What had you in mind, precisely?”

And Xander told him.

The suggestion derailed him completely, leaving him open-mouthed and Xander laughing at his expression. “Well, but Xander...”

“Not keen?”

“I... Xander...”

“That’s my name.”

He looked at the floor in the hope of disguising how badly he wanted what Xander was offering. “You know that I never want you to feel that you, that I’m pressuring you.”

“No pressure. My idea.”

“We both know you wanted nothing, nothing to do with it.”

“I think I could. I think so.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Well, duh. I _know_ that, Giles. But I think I could, and I’m willing to try. If you wanted.”

He hesitated too long, and when he looked up, Xander's eyes were knowing.

“Giles, I’ve got a safe-word for anything that’s too totally freaky, remember? And we both know that even if I didn’t, just ‘I don’t like this’ would be enough.”

Oh dear Lord, he wanted it, he wanted it, but not at the cost of Xander being unhappy. “I don’t want, you mustn’t think...”

“I don’t think. That’s your job, and at the moment you’re doing it way too much. Stop. I’m willing to try. I swear, if I don’t like it, I’ll say so.”

“But if you...”

“Multiple choice, Giles. Yes-no.”

He capitulated. “But we keep it simple. Start small.”

“That’s only sensible. Adrian said that, remember? You can always do some more later. You can’t take anything away. Come on, Big Guy. Let’s go and look in the toy box.”

He dithered in the bedroom, quivering with anticipation, still half inclined to stop Xander in his tracks as he dragged the box from under the bed and opened it. Xander reached inside.

“Simple, yeah? Just this bit, for once.” It was the collar, separated from the chains which they both loved. Xander had been preparing, obviously. The tongue slipped into place and the collar settled. Xander extracted the cane, and laid it carefully on the bed, closing the box and pushing it back underneath.

“Promise me...”

“Giles! Stop. God, stop. I _promise_. Whatever you want, I promise. I’ll tell you if I’m not happy, I’ll tell you if I don’t like it, I’ll use my safe-word if I need to.” He touched Giles’ cheek; “I think I can, Giles. I think I can. If I’m wrong, I’m not too proud to say so. Come on, we both know, Snyder makes it stop, right?”

He nodded, silenced by this unexpected Xander.

“’Kay. I don’t know how’s best to do this. Help me a bit?”

He glanced at the chair and dressing table, considered space and ease, and decided.

“Over the end of the bed, I think. Elbows on the surface.”

“And bare?”

He nodded.

“And... multiples of six are traditional?”

“Three for a first offence, or four. Six is standard issue. Twelve is... significant.”

“We’ll try for six.” Xander sounded determined.

He opened his mouth again to say “Are you sure?” and thought better of it. Xander thought he could; to deny him the opportunity to try was to insult his courage. “I’ll count them aloud, shall I?”

“Yeah.” He saw the indrawn breath and the gathering of nerve.

“O.K. Come on, Giles, I’m ready.”

He had forgotten the sound of a cane in use; not the ‘swish-crack’ that the mind somehow expected, but a lower-toned ‘thwip’. It wasn’t a noisy thing at all. “One,” he said, as calmly as he could manage.

Thwip. “Two.” Nothing from Xander but a slight intake of breath. “A little harder?”

“Yeah.”

Thwip. “Three.” And this time it hissed a little, moving faster. His voice wasn’t quite so certain. “Four. Harder again?”

“I – yeah.”

“Only if you’re sure.”

“I think I can. Harder.”

_Thwip_. That was certainly harder. “Five.” He wondered if Xander had remembered what Adrian had said about the last one traditionally being laid in the undercurve of the buttocks. He wondered if Xander knew that the last stroke was traditionally the hardest.

The cane hissed, and his own voice said into the breathless aftermath, “Six.”

“I... I can do this. I can.” Xander was struggling not to sound surprised. “Six more, Giles.”

“Only if you, if you... I’d like it, but...”

“Six more. And I’ll count them this time.”

Well.

Centre of the backside, no wrap; a clean stroke well laid on, and Xander this time saying unevenly, “Seven.”

A little lower, and overlapping slightly with a previous stroke; it got a gasp. “Eight.”

Lower again, reaching the tender areas, and producing a decided yelp. “Nine,” said Xander, after a moment.

He opened his mouth to say “Stop if that’s enough,” and thought better of it. Adrenaline coursed through him; his heart pounded so that he was surprised Xander couldn’t hear it.

_Thwip._ Hardest yet. “Ten,” said Xander, sounding almost surprised.

“Last two hard?” asked Giles, trying not to sound as if he were begging.

“Yeah. Hard and low, isn’t that it?”

_That_ sounded more like one expected: a hiss and crack, and a twist and squeal, hastily swallowed. Back of the thighs: that would mark. “Eleven,” said Xander; he sounded almost elated. Nearly done.

Sulcal crease: wait, wait, _wait_ , until the target was still, and strike, adder-fast, not quite a clean line but damned effective. “Twelve!” Definitely exultant.

Somehow Xander was in his arms and they were toppling to the bed together; somehow he was clawing at _bloody unnecessary_ clothing, needing skin, needing Xander, his Xander, clever, courageous Xander, perceptive Xander, Xander who had got to be told instantly, hoarsely, how bloody fabulous he was.

Smug Xander, rolling with him, and saying in satisfied tones, “I _thought_ I could...” Xander who had to be kissed, and caressed, and _loved_ , and given everything he liked best simply because of what he gave Giles. Their fingers met in the collar as they kissed, and then Giles was sliding down Xander's body, arm around his thighs, mouthing softly and encouragingly at the half-hard cock which suggested Xander had enjoyed that a little more than he had expected.

“Oh God yes, do that.”

Oh, he intended to. He meant for Xander to feel _good_ about this and at the back of his mind a small amused voice suggested that _that_ had been what Xander had intended all along, to make Giles stop thinking about how bloody miserable he was and how awful he was expecting the future to be, and to concentrate on the now, a now filled with love and Xander. He licked the inside of Xander's thigh and got a nudge of encouragement and a squirm as Xander twisted to align himself and oh God, Xan’s mouth was just there, and Giles was so hard, everything was hot and wet, _everything_ , his face damp with grateful tears which he brushed away against Xander's skin, his emotions bloody and healing.

Fingers drifted, exploring weals, feeling the shiver of welted skin; another wriggle connected tongue to stripe, and heat to wetness with a low sound of purest desire.

“Xander...”

“Yeah... God.”

The cock in his mouth was full and hard; he tongued gently and heard Xander gasp before returning the favour. He knew, _knew_ what Xander liked best and he would give it to him, in exchange for everything Xander gave him. Xander seemed to have the same idea; twice Giles had to wind a hand in his hair and pull him off, because they were going to make this _last_ , he was going to keep going, ignoring his own body’s demands for satisfaction, until Xander could bear no more pleasure, until Xander whined with arousal and thrust hard into his mouth, begging wordlessly for the last touch to carry him, to carry them both over.

Afterwards, Xander found the cane half under the pillow, and shoved it off the bed as he turned back to find a comfortable place with an arm over Giles.

“’Kay. Not what I was expecting.”

“Was it... was it all right? I won’t, I won’t ask you to do it again if, if...”

“Like hell. We are _so_ doing that again.”

A small tight place inside him opened and eased. “Not immediately.”

“Well, no. Not for every day, not for us. But once in a while? Yeah, I can do that.” His fingers drifted to the collar. “Next time, though...”

“Yes?”

“Next time, Giles, it’s _my_ collar, and _you_ cane _me_.” 


End file.
